


Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face

by pollitt



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollitt/pseuds/pollitt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is aghast. Sherlock and John laugh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in part by a prompt/request on sherlockbbc_fic asking for Sherlock and John laughing, and also because I wanted to write something happ(ier) and post-Reichenbach. 
> 
> Beta duties accomplished by Maverick and Data. Quote from Victor Hugo.

In John’s opinion, the conversation with Mycroft had been going swimmingly--at least in comparison to the few tense encounters that he had shared with Sherlock’s brother during the dark time between Sherlock’s “death” and his return. There was still the formal language and John always feeling as though Mycroft’s words should have come with a decoding device, but now that Sherlock had returned, the tentative camaraderie that John and Mycroft had once shared was beginning to repair itself. 

“Has he spoken of how he plans to return to his former glory and regain the mantle of the great detective?” Mycroft asked, looking into the kitchen, and by extension, Sherlock’s room. His next words were softer, and John didn’t miss the tiny thread of genuine concern. “Has he been well?”

John thought back to the two weeks that had passed since Sherlock’s return, since Mycroft had last stood in the living room of 221B. An hour ago, John had slipped out of bed, leaving Sherlock to sleep. When he’d returned after his shower, Sherlock had wrapped his arm around John’s pillow, curling it to his chest. John hadn’t had the heart to wake him. 

He cleared his throat before answering. “We haven’t gotten to that part of his plan yet. Although I'm sure he's thought of something.”

“Reconnection has been your priority, I’m sure. Although I’m surprised my brother has given into sentimentality.”

John was formulating a response when Sherlock padded into the living room, his dressing gown open and wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms and a _Frodo Lives_ t-shirt that had belonged to John’s father, and his hair a riot of messy curls.

The pained look on Mycroft’s face was so extreme, his distaste in his brother’s sartorial choices so very obvious, that John’s attention shifted from Sherlock to Mycroft. John is certain that if Sherlock had walked into the Buckingham Palace on Christmas morning wearing nothing but a top hat and interrupted the Queen’s Speech, Mycroft’s sensibilities and properly posh propriety would be less injured. 

“There are eyes everywhere, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his fingers gripping his umbrella handle tighter. “Do try to look remotely presentable if you find yourself leaving your flat today. There are reporters.”

And with that, he was gone.

Sherlock stayed silent, watching as Mycroft walked down the stairs. His eyebrow rose as he looked at John. 

For a long moment they looked at one another, until almost perfectly in sync their mouths broke first into smiles, and then into loud exhaled laughs. Sherlock moved to the couch and John followed, the sound of their laughter continuing to fill the room.

John might have considered it hysterical laughter if it hadn’t felt so right, so happy and easy, loosening the knot in his chest that had been gradually unravelling for the past two weeks. 

“Only you could offend your brother without even saying a word.”

Sherlock’s smile was bright and unforced, and he moved over on the couch, moving closer to John and to the laughter. John turned his body towards Sherlock, raising a leg onto the couch and anticipating and accepting the weight of Sherlock’s body pressing up against him--hips to chest--as Sherlock cupped his face and kissed him. 

“You do have a talent,” John finished, sinking his hands into Sherlock’s hair and pulling him closer.


End file.
